A Stranger's Life
by Rach3
Summary: Will reflects while riding in the car with Jack in Taipei....


Title: A Stranger's Life  
  
Author: Rach, aliasrlm@yahoo.com  
  
Feedback: But of course!  
  
Summary: Will reflects on recent events……  
  
Spoilers: Through "Almost Thirty Years"  
  
Rating: R for language  
  
Disclaimer: Nothing in this "Wiclet" is mine. Poor Will. I just love him. :)  
  
A/N: I told everyone last night that I didn't think I'd be able to write anything after watching that spectacular finale. Well, I lied. Thanks to Jenai for everything…  
  
*********  
  
A Stranger's Life  
  
by Rach  
  
*********  
  
  
  
This is not my life.  
  
This man, who I see reflected in a side mirror of a Mercedes SUV, is not Will Tippin. It's just some random man staring off into nothingness, scrapes adorning his forehead. It's someone else whose eye is swollen painfully shut in a rainbow of maroon, brown and scarlet. It's someone else who has swallowed blood like water. It's someone else who is trying to remain cognizant while battling the remnants of a drug-induced stupor. This person, sweatshirt sticky and heavy with dried blood, hands swollen and jaw throbbing, is a complete stranger.  
  
The silence resonating in this car – I don't believe in it. It seems forced, fake and strangely, far too easy. Nothing in the past few days has been this easy -- I'm more than hesitant to let down my guard now.  
  
The man sitting in the driver's seat, a gray-haired, clipped voice, sharply dressed man – I don't know him. He looks as foreign as the men we drive past now, the men pandering to the faceless crowds, hawking their wares from storefronts and lopsided, rotting wooden stalls. I don't even know where we are – China, Thailand, shit, we could be in Chinatown for all I know.  
  
I can't look at him, especially now, as I know he'd be swimming in garish red light from a giant neon sign at this intersection that flickers plainly: GIRLS. Such an innocent word, so easily tarnished and made dirty in these darkened streets of god knows where (I personally think it's hell). In this reddish tint, I almost can't see my caked blood and bruises in the side mirror – they almost blend in with the rest of my face. I still feel it all, though, the blood salty and rough on my cracked lips, the burning, fleshy hole in the back of my mouth where a tooth should be, the bits of enamel that crunch between my remaining molars, the way the world flashes white when my tongue accidentally brushes a raw nerve.  
  
I stare straight ahead, I don't know what else to do. The powerful rush of adrenaline is gone and the pain is starting to intensify, shooting from the top of my head through my eyes, from my chest down into my spine. Has this happened to Sydney? Had she ever come face to face with that ugly torture "1 in 5" motherfucker? The mere thought enrages me…and saddens me. What is this world? Who are these people? Will I ever feel safe again?  
  
I stop before getting in over my head…again. I don't want to think, I don't want answers, I don't want to speak or be spoken to. I don't want to know anything. I want my bed, a long lukewarm shower and about 15 hours of uninterrupted sleep. I want my mom's loving reassurance and the familiar LA skyline at dusk. I want to see Francie's warm smile and her perky pigtails. I want to leave this murky, damp hellhole and never think of it again.  
  
And I still want Sydney to quit her job.  
  
As far as mine goes – shit – Abby. The SD-6 story. Oh GOD! I don't want to feel the frantic (but now all-too-familiar) thumping in my chest, but it's there, swallowing my resolve to keep quiet and distanced. For all I know, my back-up plan ran above the fold on today's front page.  
  
"Um, Jack?" Rough like the stubble covering my (bruised) face, my voice seems faraway – that of a stranger.  
  
"Yes?" His voice is calm, although I see a glint of something in his hard eyes. Could it be worry, fear, anxiety, something of the sort?  
  
"I think we might have a problem." I manage to say through a swollen mouth, the tiniest of lisps surrounding my words. Racing, oh shit, my heart is racing.  
  
"Other than your current condition?" He turns slightly, the creases at his eyes deepen and his face twists in what some would consider an infinitesimal smile. Perfect time to pick to develop a sense of humor, Jack.  
  
"Yeah," I reply, wincing, dry-mouthed and scared.  
  
We're at another intersection, the locals (Chinese? Thai? New Yorkers?) crossing the street in a thick pack. I look back to him to see his head tilted downward, eyebrows slightly raised, eyes on me.  
  
"And this problem, Mr. Tippin, is….?"  
  
"You see, back before we went to Paris, I sort of developed a contingency plan, you know, just in case I – " Was kidnapped, tortured, beaten. "I – uh – didn't come back."  
  
He takes a deep breath and his grip tightens on the steering wheel, knuckles whitening. "The plan -- it involved writing a story, I presume?"  
  
I nod, eyes closed. I grunt as my tongue hits that raw nerve…black turns to white.  
  
My eyes fly open just to see him reaching inside his coat. Oh shit, a gun. He's going to kill me. Ohgodohgodohgodohgod. Tears spring to my eyes and I rush to say something, anything.  
  
"Jack, wait –"  
  
His hand emerges swiftly and I shut my eyes tight, my back pressing against the passenger door, its handle digging into my spine. A second passes…I'm not dead…no gunshot…nothing.  
  
My left eyelids part slowly, cautiously, my face still scrunched up in fear.  
  
In his hand is a cell phone.  
  
His eyebrows are pulled together in the center of his forehead, but he doesn't say anything about my panicked reaction. I'm secretly glad for that.  
  
I feel foolish, but more relieved than anything. Whew. I take a deep breath and wrap my bruised fingers around the phone.  
  
"Call them and fix it," Jack commands, and the car takes off again.  
  
I punch in a number and wait. Static. Then ringing.  
  
"Features, this is Abby."  
  
"Oh God, Abby, thank God –"  
  
"Will! Is that you?" Her voice goes high-pitched, squeaky, and yes, worried.  
  
"Yeah, it is," I say as if I'm convincing myself. It's me, Will Tippin. "Please tell me you haven't published that story –"  
  
"It was set to run today—"  
  
"Nononono – "  
  
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Jack's head pivot in my direction. I'm a dead man, oh shit, I'm going to die. After all of this, I'm going to die.  
  
"But we couldn't find a decent photo of you…my God, are you OK, Will? Where have you been?"  
  
"So it hasn't run? Tell me it hasn't run, Abby." My voice is wobbly and I curse myself. If I only get one prayer answered in this lifetime, please let this be it.  
  
"No, no, it hasn't. It's slated for tomorrow's paper –"  
  
"You can't let it run, you hear me? Everything depends on this," my voice is desperate, edgy. I feel like I'm back in that torture room again, my hand clenched around that needle.  
  
"Will, where the hell are you? What's going on?" Her tone mirrors mine, both of us fumbling for answers, for something to steady ourselves.  
  
"I'm – I'm fine." I see my reflection in the side mirror and almost laugh.  
  
"You sure as bloody hell don't sound fine!"  
  
"Trust me, I am. I can't talk long…just promise me that you won't run the story, please, Abby."  
  
Faint crackling surrounds a pause. "I'll take care of it immediately, as soon as I hang up, I promise. Just tell me that you'll be here tomorrow, unscathed."  
  
"I'll be in soon, OK?"  
  
"Jesus, Will, be careful," she pleads, exhaling, her breath making a whoosh into the phone.  
  
"I will. See ya'." I click the red button before she can respond. It's just too much for me right now. All of this – craziness, I don't know what else to call it – is just freaking me out, driving me to a higher plane of confusion and fear.  
  
Jack clears his throat. "Now that we've got that resolved, how many other people have seen your story?"  
  
My head spins. What have I done? Will all these people – Abby, our editor, the layout staff – die because of me and my fucking stupid 'contingency plan?'  
  
"Um, I don't know…"  
  
"Venture a guess." There's no arguing with that tone. Jack Bristow must've been a great bully as a child.  
  
"Three. Four. I don't know for sure," I reply, watching as his lips set themselves in a straight, firm line.  
  
He doesn't say anything for a few minutes, minutes that pass as slowly as those I spent with that fugly worst-dentist-in-the-world.  
  
"There is one place I need to take you before we meet Sydney and fly back to Los Angeles," he says, making a sharp right, tires squealing.  
  
"Where is that?" I ask warily, gripping the seat, my bitten fingernails clawing at the supple leather.  
  
He makes another right, hand gliding over hand on the wheel, and slams on the brakes in a dim alleyway. "I have a contact who owes me a favor –"  
  
"You're not going to dress me up like a disco pimp again, are you?"  
  
Jack Bristow actually smiles. A tiny, corners of the mouth barely curving smile that is almost as reassuring as my mother's hug. Almost. After all, this is the man who once kidnapped and beat me.  
  
"No. My friend," he pauses for the slightest moment, looking wry, and I briefly wonder if Jack Bristow has ever had any real friends, "is a doctor."  
  
I sigh in relief, my shoulders relaxing for the first time in days.  
  
"And," he continues as we get out of the car and I follow him toward an unmarked gray door belonging to a dingy cinderblock building, "he has a change of clothes waiting for you."  
  
It's my turn to smile. I'm not surprised when it hurts. "Thanks."  
  
Suddenly, something occurs to me. "Sydney's here?" I imagine her running down dark hallways, dodging bullets, wearing an awful wig and thick makeup. I feel tears sting my eyes again.  
  
"In this building, no," he presses a button and the door buzzes open. "In Taipei, yes."  
  
"Ahhh, that's where we are," I mutter, again following Jack, this time down a brightly lit corridor. "And I thought we were in hell."  
  
Jack stops abruptly and I almost run into him. "You were," he says over his shoulder, his sharp profile silhouetted by the overhead fluorescent lights. "And I'm sorry."  
  
He doesn't face me, but I know his apology is as heartfelt as possible from a man like Jack Bristow. The poignancy and absurdity of this situation, of this fucked-up life that I still can't call mine, hits me and all I can say without losing my mind, my grip, my precarious fight with an onslaught of tears is, "I know." 


End file.
